


and that forest burned (you see smoke)

by breezered



Series: there she goes (a little heartache) [1]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Recreational Drug Use, a character study to test out the voice, it's angsty my dudes, post Before the Storm, pre Life is Strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezered/pseuds/breezered
Summary: It’s April tenth, and everything is fine. It’s Rachel at her best self, sunny and happy, charisma oozing out of her and infecting every person she meets. You pick up a few shifts at the Two Whales to help finance the major repairs your truck needs, and Rachel visits you at work. She sits in a booth and winks at you every time you refill her coffee.





	and that forest burned (you see smoke)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Vices' by Brand New.

Loving Rachel Amber is a slow death. 

She consumes you, fully and completely. She’s like fire, setting your soul aflame and burning you up from the inside until, eventually, you just become a pile of burned out ash. 

But until then, until you’re burned out, _god_ , it feels like the most heavenly thing. 

You hold her hand when you get your tattoos, gritting your teeth against the relentless pricking of the needle on your arm, and she talks and laughs through her own. The scar from Damon’s knife never actually gets covered. She wears it like armour. 

Getting high in your truck, drinking cheap beer and smoking cheaper cigarettes. You pick her up after classes every day, and she slides across the pirate flag on your truck’s bench seat and presses against your side. She smells like something fruity, and you kiss her cheek just to get a better taste. 

“Come on,” she’ll say on days when the light in her eyes smoulders quietly, “let’s have an adventure.” And you can never say no to Rachel, you’ve never been able to, so you nod and put your truck in first and rip out of the school parking lot. 

“Where to?” You’ll ask, and she’ll shrug. You hate the days like those, where she’s quiet and unsure, so unlike the girl you fell for. You hate it because you know how these days will end. Rachel will shrink in on herself and you’ll be blamed for pushing too hard, for getting in her face. She’ll yell at you, and you’ll yell back, and then she’ll cry and you’ll apologize, even though it was never your fault to begin with. 

Maybe it is your fault, though. You always push her, try to bring her out of the shell she sometimes crawls inside. 

Sometimes you take her to the junkyard and you roll a joint with practiced fingers, handing it over and letting her smoke as much as she wants before you take a hit. Once you’re both high, it’s simple to just lie together, your arm going numb under her head as she talks about running away. 

That’s the thing with Rachel. She talks a lot, but it’s almost been a whole year and you’re both still stuck in Arcadia Bay. 

“You really want to leave?” You ask, and Rachel nods, turning to face you and pulling you in for a soft kiss. It works every time, shutting you up long enough for her to change the subject. 

The better days are when she whirls into your truck and slides across the seat to press a short but firm kiss to your face. It makes you blush every time, and your focus is divided as you drive with her hand on your thigh, fingers tapping to the music on the radio. 

Rachel comes up with things to do then, when she’s happy. They’re simpler things, like hang out in your room and watch a movie. She doesn’t smoke weed with you then, just watches as you try to blow smoke rings and teasing you when you fail. Those are the days she’ll climb on top of you and press you into the mattress until you’ve forgotten your own name. 

“I can’t wait to spend my life with you, Chloe Price,” she’ll say, and it takes your breath away. 

It strikes you later, much later, that maybe she didn’t mean it the way you thought she did. 

You like going to her house, where Rose cooks dinner and dessert, and James avoids your eyes, because _you know_ and he owes you for life for not telling Rachel. 

You don’t tell him that you’re not doing it for him, or for his approval, but you’re doing it for the sake of Rachel’s happiness. Because when you see her with her family, she seems so much happier and healthier than anywhere else. 

Rachel takes you to her room after dinner, every time you’re there, and you plan out road trips. 

“I want to see a butter statue,” she’ll say. You frown, and she sighs like she does every time you demonstrate how small-town your knowledge of the world is. She’ll grab her laptop and pull up a wikipedia page on the history of butter statues in America, and you’ll sit behind her, your chin on her shoulder, nose pressed into her neck. 

She’ll squirm and giggle when you dig your fingers into her ribs. “You aren’t even listening to me, asshole,” she’ll scold you. 

You kiss behind her jaw and hook your legs over hers. “No, I’m not,” you’ll say, and she’ll close her laptop, turning and capturing your lips in hers, nipping and sucking until you’re a puddle beneath her. 

Rachel Amber owns you, and she manipulates you like warm clay. 

You love her, and she loves you. And that’s enough, you think. 

Trouble is, it’s not enough for Rachel. 

When she starts her first senior-plus year, things start to unravel. It isn’t immediate, and you don’t notice it when it’s happening, but looking back…yeah. That’s when things started falling apart. 

It’s the photography teacher. He squicks you out, all talk of pretentious photography shit and quoting poems that are a little creepy. 

Rachel soaks it up like a sponge. 

Instead of talking about leaving as she lies in bed with you, it’s all “Mr. Jefferson this, Mr. Jefferson that.” You’re fucking sick of it after the first month, and you tell her. 

“Shut the fuck up about Mr. Jefferson,” you groan, and Rachel frowns, propping her head up on her hand. She narrows her eyes at you, and you sigh, because you can feel the fight brewing in the air. 

“Problem?” Rachel asks, daring you to say yes. 

You don’t back down from dares.

“Yeah, actually, there is,” you say, sitting up and grabbing a shirt from the floor, pulling it on. “I’m fucking sick of hearing about how great your teacher is. He’s a total poser, Rachel, why can’t you see that? And the way he talks to you…it’s fucked up, okay?”

“Where is this coming from?” Rachel asks, and it’s actually shocking how she’s trying to keep her cool. 

“It’s coming from the fact that after we fuck, I don’t want to be hearing about some middle-aged failed photographer,” you spit. 

“So, what, I can’t talk to you about this important part of my life now?” Rachel says, sitting up and crossing her arms over her chest. It’s a little distracting, but you keep your eyes focused on her face. 

“Important?” You laugh and grab a cigarette from the pack on your nightstand. “You aren’t even in his class! He just thinks you’re hot and he’s creeping on you. It’s fucking wrong.” You light the end of the smoke and take a drag. Rachel rips it out of your hands and drops it on the duvet. “Fuck, Rach!” You pick it up and curse again at the small burn mark. Your mom is already mad enough at you as it is on the daily, you don’t need to add this to the list of things she should be yelling at you for. 

“Why can’t you just _support_ me, Chloe?” Rachel says, and you gape at her. 

“All I have _ever_ done is support you!” 

She scoffs and stands, picking up her clothes and pulling them on. 

“Where are you going?” You ask, grabbing a pair of boxers and pulling them on, scrambling to block the door. Rachel tries to move you, but you’re still taller and stronger. It doesn’t usually matter, because you usually let Rachel win either way, but not today. 

“I’m going home, Chloe,” she says, defiant as ever. The cigarette dangles limp from your fingers. 

“No,” you say, firm and decisive, “you don’t get to just walk away from me every fucking time I disagree with you.” 

Rachel glares at you and tries to push past you again. You shove her back, and she stumbles. When she looks back up at you, her eyes are hurt and sad. 

It almost works on you, but this isn’t your first rodeo with Rachel Amber’s acting skills. For every eight times they work on you, there’s another two times that you see right through the bullshit. 

You take a long drag from your smoke, staring her down until she’s huffing and crossing her arms over the open front of her purple flannel. “Fine.” She flops down and sits on the edge of your bed. “Go ahead.” 

Ash falls from the end of the cigarette. “Jefferson is full of shit, okay? And it’s hella creepy that he’s so interested in you, but you aren’t even a photography student.” 

Rachel sighs and falls backwards onto the bed, her hair splayed around her head like a fucking halo. The late evening sun is setting, and it casts an ethereal glow around her. “Not everything has to fit into your view of ‘how things should be’, Chloe,” she says, and it’s so fucking annoying how evasive she is about everything. If it doesn’t concern you in Rachel’s mind, then there’s no way she’ll even consider that you want to be part of it. 

“Cut the bullshit.” 

“Jesus,” Rachel huffs, “you’re in a mood tonight. What, the sex wasn’t good enough for you?”

You hate her when she’s like this. When everything is just a big joke, when nothing you say is taken seriously. She can play this game for hours, deflecting and making you feel small. There’s no real way to counter it, either. Eventually she might get bored of it, or slip up enough for you to garner even the smallest bit of information. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, tired and just fucking _over it_. You stub your cigarette out in the ashtray on your desk, and you storm out the door, making the short trip across the hall to the bathroom. The shower turns on with a familiar sputter, and you strip out of your clothes to step under the warm spray. It beats your skin like a drum, rhythmic and soothing. It stings against the fresh marks Rachel’s nails left on your shoulder blades, but you feel cleaner. Just better enough. 

The door squeaks open, and you don’t need to look to know that Rachel is sitting on the toilet, waiting for you to come out and beg forgiveness. So you take your time, scrubbing every inch of yourself with the bar of fresh smelling soap Rachel gave you once (so you wouldn’t smell like generic brand stuff, which gives her a headache). You shampoo and condition your hair luxuriously. You shave your armpits and use an exfoliating scrub on your face. 

When you step out of the shower, Rachel is just where you thought she’d be, sitting on the closed toilet lid. Her eyes stick to you like glue as you towel off, and you see that she’s brought you clean underwear and clothes.  
  
“Thanks,” you say as you pull them on.

“Sure,” she says. You wipe the steam off the mirror above the sink and pick at the zit that’s formed near your hairline. “You’re going to make it scar.”

“Whatever,” you mumble. You hear Rachel sigh, like you’re some unruly kid and she’s the exasperated mother. You already have an exasperated mother, you don’t need another. 

She stands up and tentatively puts her hands on your hips. You sigh, and turn to face her. She leans up and kisses the corner of your mouth. You don’t react, you hold yourself still. 

“I’m not being fair to you, am I,” Rachel mumbles, and you know it isn’t really being said to you. She sighs and kisses you again, trying to coax a reaction out of you. She doesn’t get one. “You’re so fucking stubborn.” Her fingers slip under the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, and she thumbs gently at your protruding hip bones. 

“Rachel,” you sigh, resigned and quiet. 

“The first time I met Mr. Jefferson,” she starts, and you hold your breath, “he told me I was beautiful. That I could be a model, if I wanted. He said he knew a few people in L.A. that would want to take my picture and that he could get me in the door of the industry.” She steps closer and lies her head on your chest. “So I’ve been acting really nice to him, y’know? We have to get out of here, babe, we _have_ to. And if being flirted with by a teacher is going to do that, I’m willing to do it. I’m _going_ to do it.” 

You sigh and finally bring your arms around her. “It’s still creepy as fuck. And for the record, I don’t think this is a very good plan at all.” 

Rachel chuckles and her arms slip around your waist and squeeze. “You never like my plans. You’re always trying to change them.” 

“Hey now,” you say, “I like this plan of running away together. Always have.” 

“You’re such a shit, Chloe Price,” she says into the still damp skin of your neck. 

“But I’m your shit, Rachel Amber,” you reply, lifting her face until you’re kissing her, soundly and fully. She melts into you, and it’s one of the few moments where she lets you lead, where she waits for you to show her what’s going to happen. It’s an easy moment, and you keep kissing her until she regains control. 

“Tell me you love me,” Rachel commands.    
“I love you,” you answer. 

“Good,” Rachel says, “because I couldn’t do this if you didn’t.” 

Things don’t get better, really. Maybe just a little more honest, but that isn’t necessarily better. 

Rachel still changes moods from day to day faster than you can keep track of. There’s a week where she’s dragging you around the town, going to all the stores and all the little parks and beaches, her energy boundless and insatiable. Then one day you wake up and she’s crying, and you can’t get her out of bed until dinner time with the promise of a burger and stargazing. 

And then there’s the modelling. She’s gotten more and more excited about the prospect of being a model, and you know she’s beautiful enough. Like, maybe too beautiful. But she starts posing for the photography students, batting her eyelashes and practicing something called “smies”or whatever. 

She tells you she loves you, like, every day. When you drop her off at home, or when you pick her up from class, or when you’re lying together in the bed of your truck. Not always out loud, but you hear it no matter how she communicates it. 

You turn nineteen in March. 

Rachel makes you come and watch her in Blackwell’s production of _Twelfth Night_. You pretend to put up a big fight about it, just because you can. She rolls her eyes but plays along, and she ‘convinces’ you all night. 

Of course, because she’s Rachel Amber, she plays her part to perfection. The best Viola to ever grace high school theatre. You can’t afford anything like the giant bouquet her parents get her, but she still gets in your truck after the play and lets you drive her around. Eventually you find yourselves on the beach, the cold winter wind whipping your hair and cutting your faces. 

“It’s fucking cold, Rach,” you whine. She ignores you, twirling and whirling around with her arms spread wide to the sky. 

“Come on, babe,” she says, “live a little.” 

You sigh and lunge forward, grabbing her around the waist and spinning her in circles. She squeals in pleasure, laughing until the two of you fall onto the cold sand. She rolls on top of you and kisses you, hands in your hair and tongue in your mouth. 

“You’re the devil,” you joke, and Rachel laughs, head thrown back. She looks at you and shakes her head. 

“I’m your angel, baby,” she says, leaning down to kiss you again. 

“Hmm,” you hum into her mouth, “yeah, you’re my fucking angel.” 

She gets distant in late March. You don’t let it bother you, not really. You still see her every day, and nothing’s really changed on the surface, but there’s something just the slightest bit…off. 

You’re at a Vortex club party, and Rachel has abandoned you to go schmooze her peers. You hang back, the baggie of joints in your shirt pocket, and a wad of cash and crack change. There’s also a small baggie of miscellaneous other drugs, a bit of coke and some molly. You’d slipped in a little baggie of PCP, too, just in case any of the preppy Blackwell students were looking to spend a little extra. 

“Hi, Chloe?” You look up from where you’d been inspecting the dirt under your nails and see that meathead Logan standing in front of you. You really don’t like Logan, but he’s dumb enough to get ripped off for a dime. 

“What do you want?”

Logan shifts on his feet. “I heard you’re packing?” 

“I’m always packing,” you shrug, “and I don’t have time to stand around here making fucking small talk. What do you want?” 

“Seems like you do have time, since you’re just standing around here,” Logan says, and it’s totally not the right thing to say. 

“I’m sorry, do you want drugs or not?” You snap. The butterfly knife in your back pocket comes to mind if you need to scare this jockstrap away. 

“Fuck, calm your tits,” Logan says. 

“That’s it, I’m out,” you say, pushing past him. He grabs your arm, and you grit your teeth. 

“Alright, I’m sorry,” he says, and you wrench your arm from his grip. “Can I buy like, three joints?” You nod and pull out your baggie, handing him three joints. 

“Forty-five bucks.” Logan frowns, knowing that you don’t usually charge more than ten per joint, because if you’re selling then they’ve been meticulously measured and weighed before being wrapped. But you stand there with your hand out an a glare on your face, and he caves, fishing out the cash from his pocket. “Pleasure doing business with you.” You pat his shoulder as you pass him, eager to find Rachel and drag her home. 

She’s standing with Victoria Chase, and you can already feel the waves of how fake their interaction is from twenty feet away. 

“Hey there ladies,” you say as you come up behind Rachel. Rachel looks over her shoulder at you and smiles. Victoria just scowls, and you give her the finger. 

“Price,” Victoria says. Well, she sneers it, really, but Victoria makes everything a sneer. 

“Victoria,” you say, “nice dress. Really brings out the bitch in your eyes.”

Rachel elbows you, and you sigh. “Hello, Victoria, you look nice this evening.” 

“Ugh, Rachel, why do you always insist on bringing her to these parties,” Victoria says, totally ignoring your presence. 

Rachel looks at you, and you can see the bemused look in her eyes even if Victoria can’t. “She’s got good drugs.” You grin, and Rachel’s hand slides into your back pocket, dark and hidden from Victoria’s prying eyes. 

“Ugh,” Victoria grunts. You snort, and Rachel squeezes your ass, causing you to choke on your next breath. 

“Can we get out of here, Rach?” You ask, and Rachel frowns. 

“Sorry,” she says, although she doesn’t sound sorry at all, “I’ve got a few more rounds to make. Nathan said he wanted to talk to me.” 

You grimace. Nathan Prescott is a grade-A asshole who cuts drugs with laxatives. Plus, he sucks. As a human being. In general. 

“Fuck, come on,” you whine, “he’s a dick.” 

“He’s a friend,” Rachel says, and you groan. Everyone is Rachel’s ‘friend’. Or they want to be. Either way, you hate it. 

“Fucking fine, whatever,” you say, “can you just make it quick please?” Rachel gives your butt one more squeeze, and then you’re left standing with Victoria. 

She gives you one of the dirtiest looks you’ve seen yet. “So,” she says, “give anyone hepatitis yet?”

“Yeah, your mom,” you snipe back. It’s a terrible comeback, but Victoria still makes an affronted noise and walks away. You rolls your eyes at her retreating figure. 

Time passes slowly. You sell a few more joints and a couple pops of molly, but it’s a slow night. You can’t find Rachel again, and so you sit down on a beanbag chair in a dark corner and light up a fat blunt you’d rolled for yourself. The haze of smoke descends like a safety blanket, and you retreat into yourself. No one bothers you, no one even notices you. 

Rachel shows up some indefinite amount of time later, pupils blown wide. She collapses onto your lap and pushes your beanie off your head, her fingers weaving into your hair. 

“I love you, Chloe Price,” she slurs into your ear, and you feel your chest swell with exhilaration. She kisses the shell of your ear and leans back to look you in the eye. “I’m a little fucked up.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” you say, and you wipe a little trace of coke off the bottom of her nose. She’s always been messy, and you offer it to her. She nods and you rub it on her gums. 

“I’m sorry I’m so fucked up,” she says, and you shrug.

“It’s just a little blow, angel face,” you say. 

She’s shaking her head, though, and you really wish Rachel would learn to do drugs in the right headspace. “It’s not, though.” 

“What else did that asshat give you?” You’re ready to go beat Nathan Prescott into a pulp if he tried anything sketchy. But Rachel shakes her head again. 

“I’m all fucked up, Chloe,” she mumbles, and then she’s burying her face in your neck and you’re stroking her back. She’s not crying, but her body shakes with something. 

“Come on,” you say, “let’s get you home, okay?” Rachel nods, and she lets you take her home, to your bedroom. You make sure to have a glass of water near her in case she wakes up rough. You help her out of her clothes and strip out of your own, both of you in your underwear and t-shirts to sleep. You curl around her body and hold her close, breathing in the smell of fruity shampoo and sweet perfume. 

“I’m so sorry, Chloe,” she mutters, and you frown. Rachel’s never apologized before for being high or wasted. 

“It’s fine,” you say, and you hold her until you both fall asleep. 

It’s April tenth, and everything is fine. It’s Rachel at her best self, sunny and happy, charisma oozing out of her and infecting every person she meets. You pick up a few shifts at the Two Whales to help finance the major repairs your truck needs, and Rachel visits you at work. She sits in a booth and winks at you every time you refill her coffee. 

“Your friend is going to have to pay for her coffee,” the cook, Ned, says. He’s grumpy and old, but he likes you well enough. 

“Bite me, Ned,” you say. He laughs in his gruff way, and you grin. 

Things feel like they’re starting to go well. 

Rachel sleeps over on the fifteenth, and you spend the night talking and giggling, touching each other and breathing each other in. It’s easy and everything you love about being with Rachel. She holds you and traces imaginary pictures on your bare back, kissing between your shoulder blades. 

“I think every person has a little star dust in them,” she muses. The weed must be kicking in, and you hum. Rachel kisses tenderly along your spine. “I think you’ve got a supernova inside of you, Chloe Price. Just waiting to explode and outshine the world.” 

“What does that make you?” You ask her, and you flip onto your back. She stares down at you with sad eyes, and you tilt your head. 

“I’m a black hole,” she says, “my star has already died.” 

It’s nothing like Rachel Amber. 

“Bullshit,” you say, tugging her down until she’s nestled against you, legs tangled under your blankets. “You…are the brightest star of us all, Rachel Amber. Always have been. Always will be.” 

April twentieth, she’s laughing with Nathan Prescott as she waits for you to pick her up from classes. You frown and honk your horn. She looks over at you and gives Nathan a parting kiss on the cheek. 

“What the fuck was that?” You ask, more bite in your voice than intended. 

“What?” She asks, reaching into your glove compartment for the carton of cigarettes you keep there. She lights up as you pull out of school grounds. 

“Kissing that creep,” you say. 

“Oh,” she says, waving her hand to dismiss it, “just Nathan. He’s been having a bit of a rough time. I’m going to hang out with him day after tomorrow.” 

Something twinges in your stomach at that, and you clench your hands on the steering wheel. “Seriously, Rachel? You know I hate him.” 

“I never said _you_ were hanging out with him,” Rachel says, holding the cigarette to your lips. You take a long drag and slowly exhale. 

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll just see you after that, then?” Rachel nods and kisses the side of your face. 

“I love you, Chloe,” she says. 

“I love you too, Rachel,” you sigh, and she smiles. 

“Hey, Frank gave me some acid last weekend,” she says, grabbing her bag from the floor and fishing through it, “wanna go to the junkyard and drop it?” 

It’s not like you have anything better to do. 

When you get home late that night after dropping Rachel off at her parents’ house, you stumble across your mom in the kitchen. You probably smell like weed, booze, cigarettes, and sex, but Joyce just looks at you with sad eyes. 

“Hey, mom,” you say with a smile. 

“Chloe,” she says, “it’s a little late, isn’t it?” 

You shrug. “I had to drive Rachel home.” 

Joyce hums. “Come and have a cup of tea with me, hun.” 

You shift on your feet and think of how nice and soft your bed is, but your mom is looking at you with eyes that you _know_ mean that this conversation is happening, be it now or tomorrow. 

“Sure,” you say. You sit at the dining table and Joyce puts a steaming mug of tea in front of you. “So, what’s up? Step-douche been telling you made up crap about me again?”

“No, David hasn’t said a thing,” Joyce says, giving you a stern look. “I’m…I’m worried about you, Chloe.” 

She’s always worried about you. 

“This past year, you’ve become even more withdrawn, only ever hanging out with Rachel,” she continues, and you feel the fight flare up inside you. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I think Rachel is a lovely girl, but I don’t get the impression that she cares for you very much. Always using you for rides, or calling in the middle of the night with some crisis.” 

She’s calling Rachel selfish. It’s hard to argue that point, because Rachel _is_ selfish. But she also loves you, and you know how to deal with a little ego-centricity. 

“Mom, Rachel’s my-my best friend,” you say, and your mom nods. “She’s not always the most thoughtful of people, but she’s not bad, you know? I…I really connect with her. We’ve been best friends for years.” 

“I know, honey,” Joyce says, “I’m just a little worried about you. And that she might be leading you down a lonely path.” She hesitates and taps her fingers against her mug. “I…saw her getting into Frank Bowers’ RV the other day. It looked very friendly.” 

It doesn’t surprise you, because Frank and Rachel are friends. You introduced them, and Frank thinks Rachel’s cool enough to warrant them getting free shit. “Yeah, they’re friends,” you say. 

“Chloe, honey, girls like Rachel are…they’re very good at getting what they want,” Joyce continues. “And Rachel is a fantastic girl, but she’s also a very talented actress. I don’t want you to be led astray because of it.” 

You hate what she’s implying. You hate it because not only is Rachel yours, but Frank is your friend. Always has been, and there’s no way he’d fuck you over like that. But now that there’s been that seed planted, it starts growing. Rachel did hang out with Frank a lot, more than most people hang out with their dealers. 

“No, mom,” you say, “that’s crazy. First of all, Frank is _way_ old. Rachel wouldn’t be into that grody shit head anyways.” 

“Language,” Joyce scolds out of habit. 

“Look, I appreciate you thinking that you’re looking out for me,” you say, standing up and leaving your full cup of tea on the table, “but I think I know Rachel a little better than you do.” 

Joyce doesn’t try to stop you as you storm by and up the stairs to your room, slamming the door shut and sticking the cigarette from behind your ear between your lips. You light it and flop onto your bed. 

You grab your phone and debate texting Rachel, but she’s probably asleep already. 

You don’t try to confront her about it the next day. Instead you let her lead you through the junkyard in a wild chase, laughter bouncing off the scrap metal. She kisses you silly in your fort, whispering promises of escape and love into your mouth. Her hair shines golden in the sun, and her eyes twinkle at you. 

“We’ll sit on the pier,” she says, “and I’ll kiss you for every sunset we see.” 

You kiss her goodnight in the cab of your truck outside her parents’ house, and she gives you a wave and a wink from the front porch before disappearing behind the elaborate front door. 

The next time you see her, she’s half-rotted under the ground. 

Loving Rachel Amber consumes you like a wildfire, and as you scream and punch the ground, the smell of rotting flesh in your nostrils, you feel every part of you fall into ash. 

But you don’t die. 

No, loving Rachel Amber doesn’t kill you. It never burns out, not really. Her absence doesn’t make the fire fade or dwindle, it stokes it and stokes it until the passion and the heat from loving a ghost burns you up and leaves you empty. You spend every second of every day painfully loving Rachel Amber until there’s nothing left for you to give, no more energy and no more attention.

Loving Rachel Amber is a slow death. 

**Author's Note:**

> I finally played BtS and like...so many feelings about AmberPrice. Like...a lot. So I wanted to give their voices a shot and see what I could do. I haven't written anything like this in ages, so I'm flexing some cramped muscles. I hope you enjoyed, and happy holidays to everyone :) Thanks for reading!


End file.
